Ten More Minutes
by She-Has-Holmes-Eyes
Summary: Day by day, they say. He can barely manage minute by minute. How could he, or anyone, when the only thing tethering him to this mortal coil has gone and put himself six feet under John's grasping arms... He'll do it though. He'll hold on. For ten more minutes.


**In case anyone's interested (I almost typed that with a straight face), my inspiration for this shockingly original bit of scribbling comes from this unbelievably touching fan made video I found derping on the interwebz: **

(slash) watch ? v=DZzMbenpjEk

**Turns out a ton of these things exist, and I'm just slow. Might rob some more people's hard work to compensate for my own lack of ingenuity again, so if you've any suggestions send me a link! First time ever writing in first person POV, let me know how it went!**

Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock I would haul Martin's little hobbit arse back to Britain so that we didn't have to wait another eighteen months to see John deck Sherlock in the face and kiss him better. I can dream.

**TEN**

_"Why today?"_

_I stare at her. Oh God. I don't want to be here. I can hardly breathe, and she wants me to talk. We both know what's happened._

_"Do you want to hear me say it?" Is my voice always that quiet? Lately, it constantly sounds like I'm either crying or about to start. Not far off the mark really. Oh God, just let me out of here, I can't do this and I won't say it._

_She's leaning forward, trying to look as though she gives a flying fuck about me, rather than the fee she's wrangling out of this._

_"Eighteen months since our last appointment." No shit. Don't act like it's to your credit, you had nothing to do with it- you weren't the one to fix me, that was Sher-_

__**NO.**

_I'm talking, out of irritation as much as desperation to not finish that thought, to not remember, to not think the name._

_"You read the papers". She's British, of course she does._

_"Sometimes".  
_

_"And you watch telly. You _know _why I'm here." And I'm not going to say it- it hurts. It hurts so much, just the effort of sitting upright in my chair and speaking. I bite my finger to control the tremor in my hand, to distract myself with a different kind of pain, but if that had worked, well, there'd be even more silvery scars tracing my arms right now..._

_I need her to shut up, to shut up and leave me alone. I need to get home, even if home isn't home anymore, because at least home isn't here. Home is being hugged by the soft, cold earth now, too far away for me to reach. Home is nowhere, there is no home, but even nowhere is better than right here, because nowhere sounds like somewhere quiet and numb, where I can curl in on myself and never come out, to crush the pain like it's crushing me and just shove it all away. I can say it. I'll force myself to say it and then I can go home._

_I get as far as "I'm here becau-", before I have to choke down a sob. I can't say it. If I say it, I'll know it's true, and he'll never come back. He has to come back. He wouldn't leave me like that, he'd never leave me, and saying it will make this whole nightmare real. I squeeze my eyes together tightly before the tears can fall- I can't cry anymore, I can't. I'm so tired and I can't do anything anymore, much less say that my best friend, my Sherlock, is-_

_"What happened John?" Jesus, you sadistic bitch._

_Please. Please don't do this. Don't make me say it, I can't. I'm already drowning, don't make me choke. Please, please, I just want it to stop hurting, I want the pain to go away, just to go away._

_It won't though. I will carry this hurt for the rest of my life._

_It will never let go of me. I will always feel this way, always and forever. Drowning, trapped in my own mind. I'm screaming, I'm sobbing, but I can't get out, and no one can hear me over the dead, lifeless mask that's replaced me. __**Why can't they hear me? **__Why can't anyone help? I can't do this alone, I can't, I'm not strong enough and I'm too battered and bruised and bleeding to heal myself. I need someone, anyone. _

_Not anyone. Someone. Someone I can't think about. Not yet, not yet..._

Say it, John. Say it. Trying to ignore it? How dull. The facts are there, denying them won't make them untrue. Do get ahold of yourself and spit it out.

_I just don't have the energy to gasp at the pain of hearing him in my mind. I don't have the energy to argue either, just enough to blindly follow orders. I'll say it. I'll tense my jaw and force my face to be still. I won't cry. I won't. I'm breathing too fast, grimacing against the pain, eyes shut, surrendering to an agony that is too difficult to fight. I'm choking, but words are coming out, and I'm fighting to speak, fighting to be heard. I swallow to clear the giant lump in my throat and stare at the wall._

_"Sherlo-" My voice cuts out, my body trying to stop my brain from having to process that thought, but it doesn't get a say in this. My heart has been dealing with far too much lately and my rational mind has been no help at all. _

_"You need to get it out". I know I do, if I don't you'll never leave me alone. Shut up, I'm _trying, _can't you see how hard I'm trying?_

_"My best friend-"_

_It sounds frigheningly close to a whimper, but nothing as much like a sob. My best friend. That...that isn't even close to even the same universe as what he is to me._

_Was._

_My best friend..._

_"Sherlock Holmes", I will not pause this time. Be a soldier John. I look up at her, setting my expression, and tell myself that I'm speaking about a stranger. The mask hardens my face and I sound almost matter of fact. "Is dead."_

_Captain Watson, reporting for duty. If I'm lucky, she didn't see the tears glittering in my eyes before I ducked my head._

_Can I go home now?_

It didn't help. I never really thought it would, but I needed something, something to make myself think that I at least tried to make that day even a tiny bit better.

In a sick way though, I wanted to hurt. I still do. I want to feel the pain, this vicious stabbing in my heart and the feeling that someone had plunged a knife in my stomach and was swirling it around.

_Don't be so ridiculous John, as a medical man you should know that that is an wildly inappropriate analogy. Emotional distress cannot produce such violent physical effects- I have published an article on it somewhere, if you would be interested in reading it..._

Ponce would have it on file.

I welcome the pain, because the more I suffer, the more he mattered. And by God, did he matter. He changed so many lives, just by passing through them- a touch from Sherlock Holmes could literally alter your entire life, one glance and you'd have the individual value of your parts stripped bare on the table. And for all his prancing and airs, he didn't know that. It never occured to him. He never saw quite how spectacular he was, a man made of sparks and flame and an ice sharp mind, of stardust and torandoes, of howling winds and stormy seas and crackling flashes of lightening. How could he not see? The Man Who Sees All.

Saw All.

Ten minutes a day. That's what I allow myself. Ten minutes before midnight each day to openly remember him, to think about him and nothing else, and it's the most blessed relief and agonizing torture at the same time. I can't let him go, I can't let him leave my life, or our time meant nothing. He's always in the back of my mind anyway, silently watching, sometimes sliding in a smartarse comment, but most of the time I quite literally and painfully force myself to concentrate on whatever it is I'm expected to be doing. I've taken to developing horrible migraines, probably as a result of having half my concious mind occupied with ignoring the other half, which is currently being occupied by a mad, snarky, genius ghost that I can't bear to exorcise. I've been told by a number of emotional fans that I will always carry Sherlock in my heart, but it seems far more in character for him to take up residence in my mind instead, however lacking he may find it to be.

In this small way, he's still here with me, and while that should be comforting, it just makes the torn, ragged edges of the giant hole in my chest ache and sting worse than ever, because it simply isn't enough.

The teardrops race each other down my face as I let the sobs drive me out of my chair and onto the floor because even now, after all this time, a single stray thought will let loose the dam and it'll all come flooding out. Every moment of every day is another weight piled on me, and I have to take these moments to cry while I can. So I cry. I cry and sob and gasp and clutch at my hair in desperation at the sick swelling that's rising in my stomach. But I'm wasting time. That's one whole minute gone, and now I only have nine to spare, nine beautiful, precious memories of the days when I could fly over the London skyline without a second thought, could dance and laugh at the dark shadows that taint the most evil parts of the city, shining light on them, our light. I'm only the conductor of that light, though, and I'm useless without my source.

Useless.

**I will forever love and worship anyone who can give me an opinion on how the first person thingy went, because I could really use some tips!**

**Thanks so much for reading :)**

Lauren's-Holmes-Eyes-Are-Grateful xxx


End file.
